Of Races and Bets
by nutellaette
Summary: "It seemed like everything he had was riding on this race.  He was standing on a run in the railing now, leaning over the rest of it and yelling louder, his voice cracking slightly, adding to the din around them."  Racetrack-centric one-shot


I disclaim.

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><p>"And three… two… one!"<p>

The cracking sound of the starting pistol echoed through the track and the horses broke out immediately, galloping as fast as they could and inching ahead of each other.

She stood there and watched them, utterly fascinated, her green eyes focused as they went 'round and 'round the track. Wordlessly, she watched intently a beautiful mare called Buttercup. Her coat was a beautiful pale yellow and her mane was two-toned; the same pale yellow and a darker brown. Buttercup wasn't the fastest horse, but she sure was the prettiest. Not that Erin would admit that; Erin was a newsgirl, for Christ's sake. Newsies didn't think that things were _pretty. _Yeesh.

Secret admirations aside, Erin didn't grow tired of the place. She'd been there all day, and this was about her sixth race of the afternoon. The sun was a bit lower in the sky now and she knew that she should be heading home soon. But it was just so addictive, the track. The people, the atmosphere, the horses. They were all soothing to her restless soul.

All around her, people were yelling, placing bets, shouting and egging their picks on and cursing their opponents. It was not uncommon for gambling to be going on at the tracks; in fact, that was one of the only reasons why the track was so popular. Erin wasn't one of those people, though; she was actually rather frugal with her money, hiding most of it in an old pair of smelly socks in the bottom of her dresser under a bunch of rubbish collected over the years. She didn't like spending at all, and when she did, she felt as if she was making a great sacrifice, even if it were to buy something absolutely necessary. Like food. Or new underclothes.

Beside her was a boy about her height and age, yelling with the other drunken men around them. She thought she recognized him from the lodging house, but she wasn't sure of his name. She knew he was another newsie, though; she'd seen him around Midtown, hawking the headlines. She hadn't talked to him before and didn't even know if he recognized her because her hair wasn't in its usual messy, half-assed bun, so she decided to ignore him for the moment. Well, she tried to, but he was yelling at the top of his blessed little smoky lungs for number eight to pull ahead—as well as some other, not-so-nice things. Number eight? She checked the boards. Buttercup.

Erin couldn't help herself; she smiled a little bit and glanced slyly at him again out of the corner of her eye. He had a cigar in his hand and he waved it around emphatically, his accent overpowering his words of encouragement. He looked a little odd, standing at five-six and waving his arms around, swearing like the obviously older men around him.

"Come on! Come on, come on, come _on!_" he yelled, blue eyes intense and shining in the sunlight. He wasn't taking his eyes off of them.

She had to admit—she was a little… intrigued. It wasn't everyday that she saw someone so young so focused on gambling, so concentrated and concerned. It seemed like everything he had was riding on this race. He was standing on a run in the railing now, leaning over the rest of it and yelling louder, his voice cracking slightly, adding to the din around them. Erin turned her gaze back to the track—the horses were speeding into the last turn. Buttercup, surprisingly, was third—better than usual. For a moment, it looked like there was actually a chance of Buttercup winning. But then, only a few yards away from her finish, the mare in first crossed the finish line, winning the race.

The boy was swearing worse than a sailor and Erin hadn't heard of some of these words before. It was a bit funny, actually, mixed in with his overpowering accent. She suppressed her grin until it was just a small upward twitch of her lips.

Newsies didn't giggle, after all.

"Hey, Race. Fork it up, little man." The gruff sound of a man's voice dragged her attention behind her. With his large, meaty hand outstretched, a man with an overgrown beard was eying the boy next to Erin. She watched out of the corner of her eye, pretending to look around for someone or something. She was eavesdropping, yes—something she loved to do just because she often could get away with it. Like now. They weren't paying attention to her; like most in New York, they were focused on getting theirs, and only theirs.

The boy—Race?—looked a bit crestfallen before hardening his face into a sour expression. "Eh, who needs ya?" he grumbled, reaching deep in his pockets for what was probably his last dime. He finally pulled the shining bit of currency and reluctantly handed it over. It looked like, to Erin, that he was having a rather hard time letting go of the thing.

The fat man, who smelled vaguely of onions, grinned, showing off his missing front tooth. "Thanks, little man," he said, and waddled off. Erin imagined him snorting like pig as he left.

"Lousy tips. Who needs 'em?" Race mumbled again, rather petulantly. Erin was still watching him and, given his tone of voice, was surprised to see that he wasn't pouting and that his arms weren't crossed over his chest. No, instead, he turned around and looked at the track, a longing expression on his face. He didn't want to leave. Liked it here. That much was painfully obvious.

She sighed, feeling like she was making some kind of great personal sacrifice. And for a poor newsie who was just starting to come into her own, she kind of was. She could be buying bread with this money.

She tapped him on the shoulder as she reached into her own pants pocket. He turned around and frowned at her, shielding his eyes with his hands, even though he had a hat on. The cigar he had been waving around had somehow found its way to his mouth. "What? What is it?" he asked, his words a little muffled.

She handed him two bits.

"Make it last, yeah?"

He—Race—looked rather surprised. "_What?_" he asked, looking from her face to her outstretched hand. He could hardly believe it, it seemed. She gestured for him to take the money as it shined in the late New York sun.

"For you. I know you wanna. Go 'head. Just make it last. Or at least win this time," she said, getting a little impatient. If he didn't catch on really soon and take the money from her, she was going to make it last for him. But as soon as she had thought of it, he had taken the money from her hand and was presently biting it, making sure it was real.

"It ain't chocolate, Race," she said with a sigh, her fists making their way to her hips.

"How'd ya know my name?" he asked, looking rather confused. He didn't recognize her from anywhere, that much was certain, though he looked like he was trying to remember her, feeling like maybe he should know who this bird with the money was.

She pulled her hair back with her hand into a messy knot on the top of her head, deciding to give it a go. "Extra, extra—read all about it," she said in her stronger voice that she used to capture the attention of passersby so they would hear her and listen to her as she hawked headlines.

"Oh, hey, you're, uh, the girl with the papes," he said, with a bit of recognition in his voice.

"There's more than one of us, Race. But yep. I'm the girl with the papes. See you 'round," she said. She let her hair down and she turned around, making her way easily through the crowd without a glance back as she called for him to make that money last, for all that was holy in Pulitzer's name.

He grinned.

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><p>AN: So that was a nice little one-shot about my OC, Erin, meeting Racetrack at, well, the race track. I know OCs aren't uncommon to this fandom, but I hope Erin will stand out on her own. This isn't my first fanfiction for _Newsies_, but it is my first set in actual Manhattan in the proper time period. This is set the Autumn before the Strike, so this is in 1898.

Hope you all enjoyed!


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